


Commander Shepard: Origins

by TheFellCreature



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2694209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFellCreature/pseuds/TheFellCreature
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's been a lot written about the Commander, but most of it isn't true...They don't know the whole story. I don't even know the whole story...Shepard's had some rough patches... God only knows how she got out of some of that." - David Anderson</p><p>In depth and admittedly overindulged character study of Shepard's pre-game history, how little orphan Jane with the determined disposition became the Commander who saves the universe. Shepard's dark and bloody past, the tragedies that built her into Hero of the Citadel, the Commander of the Normandy, the savior of humanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Commander Shepard: Origins

            The rhythmic thump of Jane’s frantic footfalls hit the cracked pavement, accompanied by the steady percussion of her breath and the drumming of her heartbeat. Her slight, child’s frame raced down the empty lane off-shooting Seventh Street, a small shadow in the gloom of an unlit side street as dilapidated buildings loomed above her, decrepit monoliths standing silhouetted against the filmy, polluted firmament. Dull stars glimmered faintly through the smog in the far off reaches of a galaxy completely unaware of the current tableau occurring in the winding alleyways of lower Las Vegas. 

            Rows of black, empty windows stared down at her with the silence of an enraptured audience, glinting slightly with the distant, neon glow of the inner city as Jane streaked past. With all the devotion of a musician keeping time, she kept her breath and stride steady, grey eyes fixed on a distant objective that marked the end of her heart-pounding symphony. 

The crescendo of angry voices grew nearer with alarming discordance. A feral grin spread its way across her face as she kept pace, though it was quickly accompanied by a twinge of fear when she looked over her shoulder at the sinister trinity of silhouettes that followed her, the accelerando of their footsteps a grave admonition for her to quicken her pace. She steeled herself for the last stretch, swallowing the instinctual and inescapable fear of pursuit that rose in her throat.

She forced herself to slow, a defiant challenge to the evanescent terror that flitted through her like an interloper in unfamiliar territory. When she felt her pursuers on her heels she had reached her objective, turning sharply into an alley even darker than the dim streets. She quickly skidded to a halt, her worn sneakers grating against the cement as she backed purposefully into a corner.

The three forms of her pursuers, notably older but not quite finished with their adolescence, smiled at each other in the darkness, the whites of their eyes and teeth betraying their eager expressions as they realized that the alley was a dead end. A distant streetlamp cast their long, meandering shadows down the debris-laden alleyway like the three heads of Cerberus, sentinel of Hades, snapping at her feet.

Jane appraised them through red bangs, grey eyes flashing silver in defiance they mistakenly understood as fear. The credit chits that marked the reason for their pursuit dug into her tightly clenched palm.

They advanced, bolstered by the confidence of superior numbers and the representative power of the navy bandanas on their arms that marked them as members of the Blue Marauders.

She said nothing.

One of her pursuers stepped forward, the designated leader of the three, whose countenance emanated cruelty. A slow smile crept across his face, grotesquely out of place in the dark alley as the desert wind blew through the empty streets and the labored breathing of the four figures produced small white clouds of frosty breath in the frigid air. His hard eyes glinted down at her, his silhouette outlined against the dimly lit street far behind him.

“What? No cutting remarks?” He waited expectantly before continuing. “Good. Last words are overrated, and you won’t be quiet when I’m cutting out your tongue.”

As if to validate his threat, he flicked out a long knife, bringing it up to his face and looking down the handle at her, the glint in his eyes reflecting in the blade’s silver finish.

“This is the last time you steal from us, guttertrash,” laughed the second, quickly joined by the third in a macabre chorus of inapt humor.

A shadow broke off behind them, taller than them and marked with purposeful silence. Jane kept her gaze steady on the leader of the three, watching the figure only out of the corner of her eye. Finally, she let herself smile and said, “I wouldn’t count on it.”

            Her pursuers had little time to process her words as the shadow behind them raised its arms, the silver glint of a chain clenched in its raised fists catching the light. It brought the chain down around the third pursuer’s neck, his strangled cry attracting the attention of the other two.

            As the leader turned, he brought the knife down uselessly by his side. Jane sprung into action, dimly aware of the third gang member’s frantic flailing as he lost oxygen to the vice-like grip of her shadowed partner. She punched out at the leader’s throat with a swift, precise jab that left him gasping, dropping the knife as he brought his hands to his throat. Almost simultaneously, she delivered a swift kick to his knee, sending him falling backwards.

The second gang member had collected himself enough to bring his own knife up as he turned towards Jane. Knowing she wouldn’t be fast enough to dodge, she gritted her teeth and caught the blade as it came down, the cold steel cutting into her small hand with all the audacity of any weapon that is turned on the flesh of a twelve-year-old.

Caught momentarily by surprise, the second thug paid for his hesitance when Jane’s other fist connected with the fragile bones of his face. Reeling backwards, he stumbled, and Jane’s knee came up to shatter what little else was left in tact. The blackness of unconsciousness overcame him.

Meanwhile, the leader had recovered his breath only to have it stolen once more by the silver chain that had choked his third companion. As the stillness of unconsciousness set in, the chain slackened, and the street was silent once more.

If any of the mendicant residents of the surrounding buildings had heard the telltale sounds of an alleyway scuffle they gave it no thought. Such was life in the lower city.

Jane caught her breath as blood slid down her palm onto the sordid street, steaming in the cold air. She smiled triumphantly at her partner. “Good job, Tate,” she said breathlessly, grinning despite the omnipresent sting of her hand.

He nodded, gingerly nursing the bruised side of his face where a flailing arm had caught him. He was tall for his age, with tan, ruddy skin and dark brown hair that he wore in a short ponytail. His amber eyes seemed to glow through his bangs in the shadows of the alleyway, more expressive than his stoic expressions and laconic silence. His character would have been timid and gentle were his circumstances of a more disparate nature; circumstance being what it was, he used his physique to his advantage, inflicting pain with the quiet indifference of one who accepted the state of the world for what it was.

Jane stepped over the fallen forms of her pursuers and picked up the stolen credit chits she had dropped sometime during the fight. She and Tate refused to linger and quickly searched the Marauders’ pockets for anything of value.

With the knives and credit chits pocketed, they made their way down the alley towards the street, leaving the inert forms of the Marauders behind them. Their refrain from using lethal force against those who would not hesitate to do so was for fear of seriously angering the gang to which they belonged, considering that even minor members’ deaths were considered direct transgressions against the gang itself. That, and it was a convenient and practical excuse to protect their childish vanities against their own, innocent reluctance to take life.

Not knowing how soon the Marauders would regain consciousness, Jane and Tate fled into the night, their shadows infrequently passing under streetlights that actually worked, those that didn’t boldly declaring the legacy of cyclical neglect of the lower city.

Jane ran now with the comfort of knowing her pursuers lay far behind. The frigid air stung her eyes but cooled her face, and she heard the comforting sounds of Tate’s footfalls as he ran beside her, their combined breathing creating white tendrils of visible breath streaming behind them.

            She smiled into the shadows that cloaked them. They had enough credits to last out the month, and their injuries were minor, a fortunate contrast to many previous endeavors. _It’s been an okay day_ , she thought, and they disappeared into the depths of the city.

 

 

 


End file.
